


if this is what fate had in store, we will meet it together

by scocoaphobia



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: And yes I've been staying in the Hamilton fandom for now, Angst, As you can all see I enjoy writing angst, Canon Era, Death, Laurette (or whatever the hell is the name for this ship) is my new guilty pleasure, M/M, Non-Canonical Character Death, Suffering, To the point that it's rather unhealthy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-18 23:48:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9408113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scocoaphobia/pseuds/scocoaphobia
Summary: If this was what fate had in store for them…The only thing they had to do was meet it together.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [wherever we're going, at least we're going together](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7341781) by [panquacks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/panquacks/pseuds/panquacks). 



It is but normal for humans to tend to do such foolish things.

 

Perhaps it is but the nature of humans, to act with such carelessness, to simply throw away their short, ephemeral lives…

 

Especially when it has to deal with love.

 

The marquis of La Fayette should have known better.

After all, he was a smart, brilliant man, who not only stuck to his ideals and beliefs, but was tactical and intelligent on the battlefield.

 

Unfortunately, not even the intelligent mind of this French nobleman could escape the deep recesses of love. No, not after it has gained a strong hold of his heart.

 

The marquis had gone off to America in the hopes of joining a cause to fight for freedom, to spearhead a revolution that would soon spread to his own homeland.

What he had never expected was that he would fall in love with one of the men who called this soon to be country home.

 

John Laurens, the object of his desire, a man who had gained a strong grasp of the Frenchman’s heart and refused to let it go.

 

But what was he to do? These strong feelings were a topic marked as taboo not only in this new land, but even in the land he called his own. It was a disgrace, and a truly deep and terrible sin, should one man lie with another.

Lafayette tried his best to suppress these feelings—to make sure no one found out about them, to make sure that he kept all these things to himself.

 

However, once the man had found out that this Monsieur Laurens had fancied him as well, it had gotten far more difficult to ignore these emotions that continually tugged at him.

 

By day, they would act their parts—Lafayette as a Major General, Laurens as a Lieutenant Colonel. They played the role perfectly—giving commands to their men, leading battalions against the British forces.

By night, however, was when they show each other their true selves. Whenever they could get the chance, the two men would sneak out, would find a secluded spot away from the prying and keen eyes of the rest of the camp, and there they would meet. There, they would show and prove to each other the extent of their love.

 

These meetings had continued on for so long, fortunately without anyone ever finding out about anything—save, perhaps, for their closest friends, who, despite the absurdity of it all, seemed unfazed, but kept their words to themselves, and never told a soul about anything regarding the French nobleman and the American.

 

Unfortunately, fate, in all its cruelty, tugged its strings, setting into play a series of catastrophic events, which would mercilessly bring the two star-crossed lovers ultimately to their demise.

 

The marquis of La Fayette should have been more careful—should have known better, should have taken extra precaution. Should have watched for the prying eyes of the rest of the soldiers, should have known that, at any given time, the Commander in Chief of this cause he had joined would enter his personal tent.

 

But he was reckless.

 

He may have been brilliant, and clever, and careful on the battlefield,

But with love, he was reckless.

 

Such is the terrible reality of the human frailty.

 

Lafayette had agreed with Laurens that they would meet together inside his personal tent, inside his temporary yet personal quarters, past midnight—past the hour of when the rest of the camp should have fallen asleep.

John had arrived straight on the dot—not a minute too late, and not a minute too early.

 

It was a night they knew they would never forget—the night where their intimacy would come into its full fruition, the night that, should the strings of fate allow it, would be when their love would fully blossom.

 

There was nothing else that were on their minds that night—the two men were overwhelmed in the heat of the moment to even be bothered to think of anything else. Uniforms, breeches, boots—all those lay scattered on the floor beneath them, the only thing that clung onto their skin was each other.

 

That night, both the French nobleman and the American lay together in the small bed, legs intertwined with each other’s, Lauren’s head against Lafayette’s chest, bare skin against bare skin. A smile of satisfaction curled up the marquis’ lips—they weren’t each other’s firsts, but they might be each other’s bests.

 

Unfortunately, they, too, were each other’s lasts.

 

When Lafayette awoke, all he had expected was to wake up beside the man whom he had loved, the man whom he had taken for himself just the night before, still curled up against his body. They would have to resume their posts in the morning, pretending as if nothing had happened at all between them just the night before.

 

What Lafayette had not expected to wake up to, however, was the sight of the Commander in Chief of the Continental Army standing at the foot of the bed he and Laurens have shared for the night. There was a twinge of disappointment that briefly flickered in the general’s eyes as he stared at the two men who were still lying closely together.

 

“Good morning, General Washington,” Lafayette began, in a futile attempt to shift the conversation into a more lighter tone—to which, of course, he had failed in doing so. The Frenchman shifted in the bed, attempting to sit up straight, and, in the process, awoke the American who lay beside him. Laurens, who was also greeted with the rather unfriendly sight, tried to avoid looking into the steely gaze of the general.

 

“Get into your uniform, Colonel John Laurens,” Washington commanded, without so much as a twitch in his face, his eyes still boring into the deep brown pair of the Frenchman. Laurens did as he was told, wordlessly rising up from the bed and hurrying into his breeches, his boots, and his uniform, which all lay unkempt on the floor beside the bed.

“I shall be conferring with you later,” Washington called after the young American, after he had excused himself from their presence.

 

Lafayette’s heart refused to still. It beat rapidly, threatening to escape his chest. There was a sick, wrenching feeling that twisted inside the marquis’ stomach as he watched the small figure of Laurens disappear from the tent.

He lowered his head, refusing to look into the eyes of his adoptive father.

 

“I am very disappointed in you, Gilbert,” the Commander in Chief spoke, his gaze not withholding from the face of the Frenchman, studying every bit of movement from where he stood.

A sigh emitted from Lafayette’s lips—it was uncommon for the general to speak to him in such a tone, much less refer to him by his birth name, and not his title.

 

“You have come to America for a valiant cause, and I could not deny the help that you have given in our aid. I have treated you as if you were my own son—gave you command over battalions, gave you men to lead. I have always confided in you, trusted you as if you were my own blood.”

Should Lafayette listen more closely to the words of the general, there was dismay in his voice.

“And this is how you repay me.”

 

Lafayette wanted to speak back, to reason out with him, to tell him his side of the story. But he held his tongue—for better or for worse, he kept silent on the matter.

 

“You lie with another man,” Washington continued, clearly suppressing a hidden rage. “None other than Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens himself.”

 

There was a short pause of silence that ensued, the only sounds that filled the room were Lafayette’s heavy, nervous breaths, and Washington’s disappointed sighs.

 

“I will be sending a letter to the King of France regarding your actions,” the general concluded, stepping away from the bed, and making his way out of the tent.

 

“Sir— General Washington,” Lafayette finally spoke, having had found an ounce of courage from deep within him. His usually calm voice now filled with some sense of fear. He stood up, shamefully trying to cover his naked body with the sheets of the small bed.

“I assure you, sir, that this would not happen again.”

 

Washington paused at the doorway, as if stopping briefly to consider the words of the Frenchman. Without turning his head, he replied,

“I’m afraid that there will be no ‘next time’, Gilbert.”

 

Dread immediately filled the senses of the marquis at the words of the general.

 

He was unsure of what those words meant exactly.

 

But he knew better than to hope for the best.

 

As the weeks passed, George Washington kept a closer eye on the Frenchman, making sure he never stayed out of his sight. He was forced to move his quarters closer to that of the general’s, and any action of his was scrutinized.

 

Worst of all, he was no longer allowed to meet with John Laurens, not even in public.

 

He hadn’t even seen the lieutenant colonel in the camp at all—he had wondered where they had taken him.

 

Was he imprisoned?

 

Put in a different camp?

 

Made to lead the front lines?

 

He wasn’t even sure if John was still alive or not.

 

The entire ordeal was a terrible torture to the poor Frenchman’s soul. Day and night, thoughts of what had happened and what were to happen threatened him.

 

Of course, no thing could ever come close to what awaited him in a letter from the King of France, addressed to the Commander in Chief of the Continental Army.

 

“Execution?”

A nauseous feeling overwhelmed Lafayette as the letter was read to him. Dread and fear filled his eyes, and a sinking feeling twisted his gut.

 

“You are to be hanged in a week,” Washington stated matter-of-factly, eyes not even bothering to meet with the Frenchman’s.

“A shame, really, that you are to die in a similar manner as of any normal criminal. You are a marquis, a member of a noble household—but your sins are too sickening and horrible. Lying with another man…” The general shook his head. “A deeply unforgivable sin. This is the only way you are to atone for them.”

 

 _‘All I ever did was fall in love,’_ the marquis thought.

_‘Is there really a shame to that?’_

 

Nonetheless, Washington—and the nobilities of France as well—would hear nothing about it.

 

Within the day upon receiving the letter, Lafayette was thrown into prison.

 

That was when he had seen John Laurens again, after such a long time.

 

_He was alive._

 

Those were the only things that ran through his mind.

Even if it was temporarily, his mind had been put to ease.

 

_John Laurens was alive._

 

But not for any longer.

 

Laurens, who had briefly caught eye contact with the Frenchman, simply stared at him in a somewhat resigned demeanour. For a man who usually acted brashly, whose initial instinct was to fight, it was terribly devastating to see him in such a fatalistic manner.

 

The two men were led into the opposing sides of the prison, with one situated at the very end, and the other locked up at the other end.

 

Despite finally being within the same building once more, neither of them could hear either one’s voice.

 

A day before their execution, Washington demanded that he meet with the French nobleman within the cell he was confined in.

 

“When I have first met with you, I have seen an unbelievable amount of courage, of willingness to fight for the cause,” Washington began, standing tall, upright, and regal before the slumped figure of the defeated marquis. “You were like a son to me, Gilbert. I treated you as if you were my own blood. Never have you disappointed or failed me.”

 

“That is, until now.”

 

The words of the general simply flowed through Lafayette’s head, never really getting into him. It was difficult to listen to him—not just because of the harsh tone and words that Washington had used—but because of the thoughts that seemed to fill the Frenchman’s head.

 

_John Laurens._

 

Dear God, he was to be hanged as well.

 

The two of them were going to die.

 

How sick and cruel fate must be, to have allowed them to meet. To have allowed them to grow close together, to have the two of them fall in love with each other. To have them think that they would finally be together.

 

And to mercilessly snatch the two of them away from each other.

 

“If you are still willing to repent of your sins, Gilbert,” Washington spoke, a hint of pity flickering in his usually stoic eyes. “Tell me the words, and I will put aside this execution.”

 

“So, Gilbert, tell me,” the general continued. “Is there any final request you want to be done?”

 

Lafayette pondered over his choices. He could deny his love for the one he loved the most, and continue living— or he could refuse the request. He could simply remain silent.

But he knew that the general would not let Laurens slide, no matter what he said.

Besides, what was there to live for, if the man he had grown to pour out all his affections to was gone?

 

“General Washington,” Lafayette began, his voice slightly cracking. Without even saying the words, he knew the man’s answer.

And yet, he still decided to risk it.

 

“I would like to kiss John for the last time.”

 

A grumble could be heard from the general, and whatever pity he had left inside him withered, along with Lafayette’s words. Without saying nor doing anything more, Washington spun on his heels, turning his back against the Frenchman, and walked outside the cell.

 

If this was what fate had in store for them,

the only thing they had to do was meet it together.

 

Lafayette was abruptly and harshly woken up by a guard, who had escorted him from his cell. A rope was tied around his wrists, which were behind his back, to make sure he didn’t fight against them.

Little did they know, Lafayette wouldn’t even dare resist their hold against him. He had lost all hope, lost all sense of wanting to cling hopelessly onto life.

 

Laurens was led out of his cell as well—he could hear the distant clanging of metal bars. Not long after, the man himself had arrived, wrists held tightly behind his back with a rope, just as Lafayette had been.

It seemed to the marquis that his lover had a less friendly experience amongst the guards of the prison.

John was disheveled, dark bags on the skin beneath his eyes, his hair an untidy mess, the ponytail barely holding it back. Looking closer, there was a crack in his lip from a wound he seemed to have acquired a few days ago, most likely the day they were both thrown into prison. His eyes were locked into a venomous glare as he stared at the soldiers pushing him around, but his gaze immediately softened as his eyes fell onto the Frenchman’s own.

 

In comparison, Lafayette’s eyes seemed to be a sea of calm, despite the aching sorrow that was buried deep within his heart.

 

The door opened before them, letting in a blinding, somewhat unwelcome stream of sunlight.

 

Unkempt as Laurens’ figure may be, to the eyes of the Frenchman, he still seemed to be the most perfect, handsome face he had ever set his eyes upon.

Despite the fact that Lafayette knew the fate that awaited them later that day, he still could not find it in him to deny the immense amount of love he had for the man.

 

The guards pushed them forward, as if to show no mercy to the two sinners.

Lafayette tried to resist the urge to fight back—to go against the commands of the men behind them simply just to steal one last kiss with John for the last time.

 

He fought against it.

 

He simply carried on, his footsteps long, begrudging, heavy.

 

There before them, stood the fate that awaited them.

 

The gallows.

 

They were led to the platform, where two ropes lazily slung above them.

 

They stood side by side, completely still. Not one of them daring to move a muscle.

 

The executioner wasted no time at all in typing the ropes around their necks.

 

People have gathered to watch them.

It was almost like a sick, cruel joke, a horrific comedy, a show with a gruesome ending. A French nobleman and the son of a rich merchant, falling in love together, only to have that love brutally and mercilessly cut short.

 

Lafayette’s eyes remained forward.

 

Washington was there amongst the crowd. There stood beside him a man whom he could only guess would be John’s father.

Both of them shared disapproving stares at the two men that stood on the platform above them.

 

“Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, the Marquis de La Fayette,” the executioner began, his voice echoing throughout the vicinity. “And Lieutenant colonel John Laurens.”

 

The way he spoke reminded Lafayette of when people were shown absurdities, as if they were some kind of display that needed to be presented to the public.

 

“The terrible crime of the two men is that the lieutenant colonel has allegedly seduced the marquis, and their homosexual relationship and engagements have been confirmed by none other than the Commander in Chief of the Continental Army himself, His Excellency, George Washington.”

 

To the ears of Lafayette, everything seemed to be but a blur, a noise that simply settled into the background. There was a terrible, churning, sickening sensation that twisted inside of him.

 

He once promised that he would stay strong, stay brave, just for the man he loved.

 

If fighting back the tears that prickled his eyes, that threatened to spill down his cheeks, was an act of bravery, then he would do it.

 

For John Laurens.

 

For the one whom he truly loved.

 

The executioner turned towards the two men, a disgusted glare fixed upon them.

“Any last words?”

 

“John,” the Frenchman began, his voice faltering. The marquis closed his eyes one last time. The tears that he desperately tried to fight back began to roll down the sides of his face.

“Je t’aime.”

 

He wasn’t expecting an answer, but he welcomed it nonetheless.

 

For the last time, the sweet, yet nervous voice of Laurens filled Lafayette’s ears.

 

“I love you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Based off panquack's fic, "wherever we're going, at least we're going together".
> 
> I got inspired by it, and so I decided, "Why not write a fic too, based off that?"  
> And so, this was the result.
> 
> I may have added a few more things from my imagination (such as the entire "how-they-got-caught" thing).  
> I apologise if I've mischaracterised a character in any way.
> 
> Thank you for reading this. Please do leave a comment, criticisms are also welcomed (though harsh words are not to be tolerated).
> 
> P.S. — Please do also check out the original fic that I based this from. It's short, but very much worth the read.


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